Solitude
by EtherealSinger
Summary: NEW VERSION. Rosalind LéCompte is horribly disfigured in the Don Juan disaster, and seeks revenge on the man who caused her life to change. Erik still mourns the loss of Christine and is on the brink of madness. The events that follow are perilous...
1. Don Juan

**A/N: Wow. I can hardly believe I'm re-writing this, haha. Does anyone even still read Phantom fanfiction? o3o I hope so! I was re-reading this story (both versions, too bad I never finished the revised one) and really fell in love with my characters again, but found a lot of things that could be improved upon.**

**So, I decided to re-write this, and I'll go ahead and say, it's going to be kind of grotesque and gothic compared to the other two versions, where I was honestly more focused on fluffy stuff.**

**Please keep in mind this is much, much more adult-oriented than the last two versions of this story. I'm really developing the characters and doing my best to recreate situations that would have actually happened... Some of you won't like it, I can guarantee.**

**This is the story of Rosalind and Erik, the realistic story of lust and murder and raw emotion.**

**Enjoy.**

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**1. Don Juan**

It was six o'clock on a dreary Monday afternoon, and the last thing I wanted to hear was the loud knocking at my front door. I had just settled down with a book and a cup of tea, eager for some rest and relaxation after a long weekend of orchestra rehearsals, supposedly for some wedding in the near future. Honestly, I hadn't paid that much attention to the details; after all, it's only my job as a violinist to play what is put in front of me.

Grumbling a little, I set down my tea and folded my book across the settee cushion, smoothing out my skirts as I walked to the front door and reluctantly opened it halfway. "Yes?"

"Mademoiselle LéCompte?" A young boy was standing there, no more than thirteen, holding an envelope in his hands.

I blinked a few times before nodding. "A little late for the post, isn't it?"

"Well, eh," the boy simpered, "my father works as a postman and said that this has been waiting to be delivered for a few days now," he stammered a little. "It's got urgent written on the back, so we decided to deliver it off hours, being as it's important and all."

Once again, I blinked, slowly taking the letter from his hands and opening it. How strange.

My eyes widened and then rolled as I saw who it was from. "Thank you." Without a reply, the boy had turned and was on his way, and my eyes began to scan the rest of the mail.

_Mlle. LéCompte-_

_Laurent is ill and will be unable to attend Monday's performance. We ask that you kindly take his place for this important event and attend the following rehearsals:_

_Sunday, 6 PM practice and Monday, 6:30 PM practice and 7:30 performance_

_-M. Reyer_

"Oh, damnit. Damn it!" I tossed the letter on the nearest desk as I ran to my room, stripping on the way and hastily rummaging through my closet for the performance garb of the Opera Populaire.

"Of all the days the post could have forgotten to deliver a letter!" I complained to myself out loud as I slipped on my heels, grabbing my violin and taking a brief glance in the mirror before rushing out the door. Luckily there was a cab about to pass by, which I quickly flagged down.

"To the Opera Populaire, Monsieur," I said as I climbed into the carriage, "and preferably as fast as you can travel!"

--

The main foyer of the Opera was already crowded with guests, and I had to squeeze through the growing throng of people to make my way into the theatre. Everyone was going about their usual business- drunkards wallowed around on the set pieces, La Carlotta was screaming at the chorus girls (or, ballet rats, as she enjoyed calling them), and as an added bonus, the orchestra was finishing with warmups.

Maneuvering my way into the orchestra pit, M. Reyer breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, tapping his conducting wand on the old stand in front of him. "So glad you could join us, Mademoiselle LéCompte!" he said in his typical mordant voice. "Why, may I ask, were you not at rehearsal yesterday?"

"I apologize, Monsieur," I replied, finding my seat and resting my violin in my lap, "for some reason or another the post wasn't able to deliver it on time."

Reyer huffed, and I could see his forehead bulge slightly. Reaching behind the master score, he pulled out a bundle of music and handed it to me. "At least you sight-read well, Mademoiselle, for we have an extremely difficult piece to play tonight."

"Good thing I like a challenge," I retorted with a smirk, placing the music on the stand in front of me and briefly scanning over it. The words Don Juan Triumphant! were written at the top of the score, in rich red ink with perfectly spaced letters. It was much different than the black scrawl I was used to, everything seemed pristine and extremely labored over. However, the thing that puzzled me the most was the fact that the composer's name was not signed- nor was the arranger's, for that matter.

"Well? Do you think you can play it?"

I looked up at Reyer. "Yes. I hope so."

Another impatient sigh. "I hope so too." I almost laughed- he was so worked up over nothing.

"Who wrote this, anyways? I've never seen such an exquisite piece of music!" I glanced up at him.

Reyer stopped his fiddling, giving me an almost bemused expression. "Why, didn't you know? The Opera Ghost did!"

At first I thought the man was joking, but his face remained solemn- and Reyer wasn't the one to tease. "The Opera Ghost?" I said hesitantly. "You mean the one that the chorus girls talk about all the time?"

"None other." he replied, and then started to address the whole orchestra. "Dames, gentlemen, you have ten minutes to refresh yourselves, but please remember to be back in your seats before the show!"

I was one of the few who didn't get up, and I spent the time thinking. M. Reyer had seemed edgier than usual, and he kept making nervous glances up at the stage.

My thoughts were broken by the sound of a high-pitched note, echoing around the theatre. I stood from my seat and peered onto the stage, barely tall enough to see what was going on. The orchestra pit was located, for the most part, underneath the stage, so it would not get in the way of the opera being performed. The conductor was the only one that could see the stage without straining, and he gave most of the actors their cues.

At the moment, Christine Daaé was warming up, her russet locks perfectly curled and pulled back, diamonds hanging from her ears. She was the lead that night, to the relief of many. I doubt there were any (save for Piangi) who wanted to hear Carlotta sing, including myself. It was almost an insult to play accompaniment for the conceited Prima Donna.

"Rosalind!" I heard a sweet voice from behind me, and I instantly knew who it was.

I had befriended Meg Giry on my first substitution at the Opera; she was one of the few mature performers there. Over time we grew to be great friends, confiding in each other often. "Bonjour, Meg!" I greeted her as she climbed into the orchestra pit, eluding the chairs and instruments.

"Good evening," she replied, tossing her light brown hair over her shoulder. Another high note came from Christine, perfectly in tune and clear. In the background, I could see Carlotta sneer and turn around, taking one of her poodles from Piangi and fluffing up its fur. I laughed, shaking my head.

"I'm so glad she has a small role in the opera this time," I mused, turning my attention to the ballerina beside me.

"Oh, so am I!" she replied, emerald eyes wide. "Christine works far too hard to be overthrown by that diva."

"I wouldn't say she works too hard, but I can tell she's been taking lessons… Who from?"

Meg looked at me worriedly and sighed. "The Opera Ghost fellow- I'm sure you know who I'm talking about."

"Yes… The same one who wrote this opera." I motioned to Don Juan.

She nodded. "That's him. I have a feeling that Mother knows more about him than she claims to- though she's called him insane at times."

"So, we're performing the opera of a madman… But a very clever one at that!"

"There's a fine line between madness and cleverness, Rosalind."

"Oh, but have you seen his work, Meg? It's genius! Everything is perfect! My God, no wonder Christine is so good!"

"Meg Giry!" A tall, limber woman walked onto the stage, spotting us staring up at her. It was Antoinette Giry- Meg's mother and the ballet instructor. She was certainly not as old as everyone thought, though her appearance was rather like one of a schoolmistress. Her face was mature and ripened, but it seemed to be that way from a past trauma, not aging. "The show is about to start!" she scolded as Meg scurried onto the stage, joining her fellow dancers in position for the first act. Mme. Giry bid me good evening and walked to her place behind the closing curtain.

Others were starting to re-enter the orchestra pit and take their seats, turning their scores to the first page and doing the fingerings in preparation. I sighed and joined them, Reyer taking his place in front of us. His composure was normal, but his troubled eyes kept flicking about, sending silent messages to others.

As the final spectators took their seats, a whole squad of sentries marched in, some lining the walls while others disappeared behind the curtains. A soft murmur erupted around the orchestra, and I traded glances with the man beside me, Pierre LaReux. "What's going on?"

"I'm not completely sure, Miss LéCompte," he replied, "but I think it has something to do with the opera we are presenting."

"Not the opera, I'd gather. It has to do with the person who wrote it."

"Well, yes…"

"Hush!" Reyer hissed at us, and I quickly turned back to my music. I was physically ready for the first notes, but my mind was elsewhere- why was everyone acting so peculiar? And- why had I heard so much about the 'Opera Ghost' when I'd only been there for such a short period of time? We were playing his opera, but surely he wouldn't try anything…?


	2. The Crash

**A/N: It feels so good to be writing again...**

**2. The Crash**

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. There was a deep murmur stirring up the audience and Reyer's expression captured the feeling of the entire Opera.

Over the sound of our instruments, it took the orchestra pit a little longer to realize what was going on, but when I did, my heart leapt into my throat and refused to budge. There was a different voice singing Piangi's part- a beautiful, velvety voice I'd never heard before. Everything about it was rich and crystal clear, every note a cascade of perfection.

_The Phantom..._ I'd never heard or seen the man before, but without a doubt in my mind, I knew it was him. He and Christine Daaé were preforming an aria together- a very sexual one at that. Regardless, it was obviously simply by their voices that the two were enjoying every second- the growing unsettlement from the audience suggested they were not.

Out of the corner of my eye, I was able to see the Vicomte rise from his seat, facial expression that of disgust. The song was at its peak, and from what I could tell, the Phantom was singing a _proposal_- of all things! He sighed out Christine's name with such sweetness, such passion, and then-!

I could distinguish Meg's scream first, and the rest of the opera soon joined. Reyer's hand flew to his mouth, pale eyes widened with fright. There was mass hysteria for a few seconds, but out of the chaos one thing could be heard- creaking of the swaying chandelier above us. The entire auditorium seemed to go quiet for a split second, and as I looked up in horror, the chandelier fell loose of its bearings. The chains were ripping through the ceiling, dropping debris onto the people scattering below.

"Go, go!" Reyer shouted, climbing out of the orchestra pit and running as fast as his frail legs could cary him to the nearest exit. I tried to follow him, but delirium filled the theatre, and I was trapped as the chandelier crashed onto the stage above. The fire from the candles began to feed greedily off our parchment, spreading rapidly and blocking my only exit. I screamed and tried to find a way out, but it was pointless- my cries mingled with others and it seemed every path to freedom was blocked by fiery rubble.

"This can't be happening... This can't be happening!" As I looked around frantically, I could see people caught under debris, some of my fellow orchestra members already dead due to the flames. "Oh god... Oh my god..." Tears were filling my eyes, making it even harder to see, and as I desperately tried to escape, I felt my ankle turn and my body hit the ground. I quickly tried to get to my feet, but as I did so, a flame leapt in front of me, the heat grazing against my face. I shrieked and instinctively rolled away, until suddenly, I was underneath the stage and could go no further.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't hear- I could barely even think, and it was so damn _hot._ All I could feel were flames licking at my back, and smoke invading my lungs as I huddled in the last corner deprived of torture.

"Rosalind... Rosalind!" I groaned a little and turned, but all the shapes in front of me were melting together and I couldn't discern one thing from another. After relentlessly searching for a savior, I turned back into my fetal position and buried my face in my knees. _It's... probably a hallucination anyways..._

I heard another crash, and without warning, the stage above me crumbled, and I knew no more.


End file.
